Pedestal
by The Readers Muse
Summary: It had been easy to pull the wool over their eyes, to play the part of the greased up wrench monkey. The harmless, smart-talking fixer-up type guy that was always friendly, always generous when it came to lendin' you a puff, until the night - not two days after Rick had been reunited with his family – a group of walkers suddenly invaded camp. (Blade II crossover)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Blade II, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #1) "AU Caryl with any of the different characters that Norm has played over the years. (ie: Replace Daryl with Scud from Blade II or Murphy from Boondock Saints.)." - As requested by karouyamisaki.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead – particularly season one and just to be safe, all of Blade II. This is an AU/crossover fic, hurt and comfort, strong language, the usual blood, guts, and gore.

**Pedestal**

_**Chapter One**_

It had been easy to pull the wool over their eyes, to play the part of the greased up wrench monkey. The harmless, smart-talking fixer-up type guy that was always friendly, always generous when it came to lendin' you a puff, until the night - not two days after Rick had been reunited with his family – a group of walkers suddenly invaded camp.

By his best estimates, barely a beat had gone by between Amy's scream and the others' startled cries, but by then he'd already pulled his piece from underneath his shirt and had flicked off the safety. Doing what had always come to him naturally, _surviving._

And when the smoke had cleared and those left standing started countin' their losses, to say the others looked at him differently was an _understatement_. Their reactions ranged from awe and surprise, to grudging respect and downright suspicion. Honestly, he'd been expecting as much. He hadn't exactly advertised that he was packing. Hell, he doubted anyone had been aware he'd even been carrying in the first place, let alone actually known how to use it.

Shit, he'd hit his first bulls eye at barely nine years old. His old man might not have been around for long, but at least the prick _had _taught him something worth learnin' - how to take care of himself.

He'd tried to play it off, until Shane flat out confronted him not half an hour later, crowding him against the RV until they were practically bumping chests, grilling him five ways till Sunday as Andrea wailed somewhere behind them. It was the type of sound that colored the very air around you, seeping under your skin and stayin' there, like an itch you just couldn't scratch.

He supposed it made sense in a morbid sort of way, that the sound of loss, the sound of grief and despair would be something that stayed with you. That it would _feel _like it sounded, something stained and dirty that wriggled underneath your skin and fuckin' stayed there.

He'd been about five seconds away from getting his ass royally handed to him when Rick and Jim had stepped in to mediate. But he'd gotten the last word, telling Shane where to stick it as Jim and Dale motioned him over towards one of the lawn chairs. Makin' noise about level heads and shit as his hackles stayed on point.

He could feel the weight of Shane's gaze drilling a hole through the back of his head. He flipped him the bird without even glancing backwards, smirking into his shirt collar as a string of angry words rose up behind him.

It wasn't exactly like they'd been handing out the guns like party favors before all this anyway. It was _his_ piece and he had a right to protect himself. Just because 'Mr. Defender of the American Way' hadn't noticed he'd been packing heat all this time didn't mean the man's ignorance was any fault of his.

Honestly, the man seemed downright butt-hurt lately, spoiling for a fight. It didn't seem to matter what the situation was or where, Shane seemed to be nursing one hell of a grudge for someone. Either that or he desperately needed to get laid. Actually, if he didn't know any better he would say that it'd all started the day Rick and co. had returned from Atlanta. _Huh._

_There was a story there somewhere, he was sure of it._

He figured it was best to stay put for the time being, watching out of the corner of his eye as Rick drew Shane off to the side – either in cahoots with him or tryin' to talk some sense into him – from this angle it was hard to tell.

He slumped against the back bumper of the RV, figuring he might as well get comfortable as he lit up, closing his eyes in relative bliss as the harsh tang of nicotine settled deep in his lungs like a warm, all-encompassing blanket.

He tried not to make a big deal of it when the others trickled over to touch base, Jim, Dale, Jacqui, Morales' woman, all sending him a smile or a quick thanks before they wandered off again. There was curiosity and a whole list of unanswered questions in the back of their eyes, but at least they had their priorities straight. They didn't give two shits about the gun and his little performance, all they cared about was that they were still tickin'.

He caught sight of Sophia playing next to Carl and Morales' brood, sending her a wriggling, one handed wave when she smiled shyly at him from her seat at one of the picnic tables. Her Mama was nowhere to be seen.

He shook his head, wondering internally when he'd even started noticing.

He spat on the ground, tasting grit on his tongue as he took a draw from someone's canteen, gargling then spitting again. He let the sounds of the others fade into the background, ignoring the way Rick and Shane would glance over at him occasionally in favor of taking stock of himself.

He tried to block it out when the others started dealing with the bodies, but he failed somewhere along the line as the sound of metal scraping against bone echoed uncomfortably in the muted hum.

His mouth tightened as the piles grew larger. His teeth and tongue worried a hangnail bloody as he started recognizing faces, clothing, a scar, a smattering of freckles. _Fuck._

They'd lost so many. It was like Atlanta all over again, the chaos and death that had ensued when the military blockade had failed. He'd never seen anything like it, and in all honesty, considering his history, that was actually saying something.

Like he'd said before, he hadn't hesitated. He'd had his gun out and was already shooting nearly ten seconds before anyone else. Everyone was screaming, yelling, calling out, mere shadows beyond the light of the fire until you couldn't tell who was who anymore. Until you couldn't risk shooting blind, as those on the outskirts of the main fire, those already asleep in their tents tried to make it on their own.

He wasn't sure how many times his finger squeezed down on the trigger, but he did remember the sound when the chamber finally clicked empty. _Shit! He'd only had one clip!_

He heard Sophia scream somewhere off to his right, but before he could even so much as pivot, a walker lunged out of the shadows, tripping over one of the folding chairs as he scrambled out of range, dropping his Glock and snapping up a half-burned two by four as the stupid fuck followed him around the fire. He swung the piece of wood like a baseball bat, feeling the _thunk _vibrate all the way up his arms as the walker fell face first into the coals.

He didn't wait around to see if it was going to get back up again.

He caught sight of Carol and Sophia on the opposite side of the clearing. Somehow they'd gotten separated from Lori and Carl, cornered by a group of walkers that had shambled out of the tree-line, seemingly separate from the main herd.

Rick and Shane hadn't noticed, they just kept shooting, taking down walker after walker as Lori and Carl remained sandwiched between them. He hadn't even thought about it when he'd dropped the piece of wood and zigzagged around the fire. He ducked around Morales as the man took a baseball bat to some deadhead's face, feeling the blood pepper across his cheeks as he stumbled, nearly tripping, aiming for that flash of silver as Carol wielded a broken tree branch, trying to fend off the closest walker - Sophia hiding behind her.

He wasn't sure where the daring had come from, but before he could even internalize it, he'd unsnapped the buckles of Shane's holster and lifted the man's spare firearm before either of them could say 'boo'. He'd taken down the walkers surrounding Carol and her chick before Shane could say anything, just nodding as he'd joined them, standing shoulder to shoulder for the first time as he pushed Carol and Sophia behind him, - keeping them safe as he covered their left flank.

It had felt oddly, _nice_ - knowing that for once someone other than me, myself, and I had his back.

He could feel the warmth of her against his back, the flutter of hands, fingers, and nails before she finally settled on seizing a corner of his jacket, fisting it in her small hand until he felt like a dog on a leash. But still, he didn't baulk. Instead, he _used_ it. Her steady presence served as a reminder of just _what _they were fighting for.

Rick tossed him another clip, the movement smooth and almost seamless as Shane's Mossberg blared out into the chaos; he could see people, _things, _moving beyond the reach of the fire. The flash from the muzzle highlighted parts of the crowd, lighting up the night as walkers fell on the fallen, ripping up screams just as easily as they did flesh as fear crawled up the length of his neck like a shiver and stayed there.

Caught in the half-light between the front of the RV and Glenn's cannibalized Dodge Challenger, Jacqui yelled. She was holding a fire axe, trying to keep a small group of walkers at bay. She was outnumbered and being pushed towards the edge of the quarry. He wasn't sure where the man had come from, but before he could so much as aim in her direction, Jim entered the fray, eyes flashing as he swung a shovel like a long sword.

But the man wasn't paying attention, he didn't see-

He fumbled in his pocket, nearly dropping Shane's gun before his hand finally closed around the last of his bastardized flash-bangs – the one that had that wicked kick at the end, nabbing both Vampire _and_ Human as another group of walkers converged on Jim from behind. He only hoped they'd work half as well on walkers_. _

_He just needed a few extra seconds…_

When he and Blade had parted ways – not even twenty-four hours after they'd gotten Whistler back from the fangs – he'd ended up skipping town before the vampires or Big B were any wiser. It was a long story, but the not so sudden decision had involved a lot of heart to heart and him _finally_ getting his head out of his arse regarding the whole vampire ass kisser thing. He'd hit the road before sunup, getting to the nearest airport just in time to catch the red-eye back to the good old red, white and blue. But despite how he might monologue it in his head, he hadn't exactly left empty handed.

He'd set out with a mini arsenal of sorts, half convinced he was going to be facing some sort of vampire death squad the moment he stepped a fuckin' toe out of line. But nothing had happened. Not the first mile, or the second, the tenth or the moment he'd turned off the highway and angled his van towards the airport. Nothing had happened when he'd bribed one of the baggage handlers, skipping every security checkpoint between him and his plane. Hell, he'd stepped off the plane at LAX, and before he'd even recovered from getting bitch-slapped with the humidity, he had a text message waiting from one of his old contacts, finding both her and his luggage already waiting for him out front.

_God, he'd missed America._

The first thing he'd done after that was set up camp at the nearest Krispie Kreme joint and binge for the next two fuckin' hours. He'd walked out with pins and needles in his ass and the mother of all sugar rushes, but_ damn_ had it been worth it.

He'd used up the majority of the hardware he'd managed to squirrel away after getting stuck in the suburbs. He'd nearly taken out the side of a gore-splattered Burger King trying to dodge a group of deadheads. Accidentally blowing right through a parking lot that looked like the Battle of Blitzkrieg-clusterfuck-Suburbia had_ just _gone down five minutes before he hit the curb and crashed his stolen two-seater into a smoking Humvee some ding-a-ling had left abandoned in the middle of the god damned parking lot.

Turns out the place hadn't been as abandoned as he'd originally thought.

He _felt _more than _heard _Carol's sudden intake of breath as he drew his arm back and aimed, taking a second to shout out a warning as walker and friendly alike whirled around, scattering as Jim and Jacqui threw themselves to the ground, rolling under the RV only half a second before the flash-bang went airborne.

_Make papa proud._

The resulting explosion ripped through the trio of converging walkers, sending the smell of scorched earth and old death filtering through the air as bits of sod and the odd limb or three melded together - misting through the quiet like chemical rain as he took out the remaining walkers with the last of his clip.

A smug smile tugged the corners of his lips skywards as he surveyed the scene, sassy and satisfied as Jim and Jacqui peeked out from underneath the RV, wide-eyed and uncertain.

_Bo-frickin'-ya! The Scudester was back in business!_

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter after this; it should be up tomorrow so stay tuned!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Blade II, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #1) "AU Caryl with any of the different characters that Norm has played over the years. (ie: Replace Daryl with Scud from Blade II or Murphy from Boondock Saints.)." - As requested by karouyamisaki.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead – particularly season one and just to be safe, all of Blade II. This is an AU/crossover fic, hurt and comfort, strong language, the usual blood, guts, and gore.

**Pedestal**

_**Chapter Two**_

He had a feeling _something_ was coming when Rick and Shane finally broke up their little football huddle and headed towards him. But that being said, he was pretty much floored when instead of a dressing down or a diplomatic, PR approved 'friendly chat' about expunged juvenile records and explosive ordinates being kept in one's back pocket, Rick pulled a sweet looking Ladysmith out of his belt and handed it to him.

It was a decent piece, not new but clearly well cared for. He turned it over in his hand, thumbing the grain. He took a closer look, squinting. There were someone's initials engraved on the bottom. _L.B?_

"It belonged to an idiot, a rookie from our department called Leon Basset," Rick began, the toe of one of his boots scuffing against the bone dry soil as he appeared to consider his next words carefully.

"He was a bit dim, a bit young," Rick admitted, the shadow of a smile curling around the corner of his lips, gaze distant as he remembered, "but he was a good man when it came down to it."

The gun felt heavy in his hands, warmed by another man's skin. His fingers twitched around the slide, the whole thing felt weirdly like stepping on someone's grave.

B would have fuckin' _wept _with pride.

"Now, explosives aside, and believe me, we _will_ be talking about that later, I've seen how you shoot – and honestly, I'd feel a whole lot better knowing you had the firepower to watch _all_ our backs," Rick finished, sending him the ghost of an approving smile as he checked the chamber habitually. There was a full clip and probably more in Shane's bag, whereas he'd run clean out of ammunition for his Glock.

Hell, the decision was practically _made _for him.

And yet, he hesitated. Normally he wouldn't have had a problem adopting another piece, especially considering it was free. But he wasn't stupid. It wasn't the gun he had a problem with; it was the connotations that came along with it. _The responsibility. _

This offer came with a whole tangle of strings and he knew better than to get himself caught up in it. He was better off _el solo,_ thank you very much. But really, when had that ever actually worked out for him? The last time he'd struck out on his own, he'd had to engage in some serious siege warfare on top of his favorite Krispie Kreme joint downtown, lobbing pipe bombs at a crowd of deadheads gathering below him until a god damned _tank_ had rolled up Main Street. It'd distracted the walkers long enough for him to sprint over to his van and do the whole 'Gone in Sixty Seconds' routine down a random side street, hoping to every deity he _didn't _believe in that it would lead him to the freeway.

He could feel everyone and their mother watchin' the scene somewhere behind him. Hell, when he'd extended his hand and offered the gun back, he practically _felt _the god damned shock wave. _Nosy._

"How many times do I have to say it, man? I'm a lover, not a fighter," he chided, tone flat but companionable as he let the pea-shooter balance itself in the center of his palm. _It had a good weight to it, good balance too; he'd admit to that much._

Rick raised a brow, but didn't make a move to take it back, eying him down like a twelve year old who'd just been blessed with x-ray vision in the middle of Paris' fashion week. Which would have been _awesome_ by the way - what snot-nosed prepubescent boy wouldn't _kill _for the opportunity to see through walls? Woman's changing rooms? Or maybe he was just projecting. Hell, even now he'd seriously consider parting with his left nut just for a fuckin'_ taste_ of Superman's most underrated superpower.

_He was still a kid at heart, so sue him._

The pause was awkward, growing sketchy and strained as neither of them made a move to break it. He felt like he was the odd man out in an unexpected Mexican standoff. He wondered if this was some sort of test, some sort of silent judgement thing that would come to define the man's opinion of him until the dawn of time or whatever. He bit his lip, stubborn. He didn't do intimidation, not unless there were fangs or imminent death involved. He'd never been good at tests or rules for that matter. He'd always been the kind of kid that had deliberately colored out of the lines. _Pre-school had been hell._

In the end, it was Shane who broke the silence.

"Well, now you are a lover with a gun," Shane retorted, giving him the stink eye over Rick's shoulder before he stalked off, his shoulders set in a stiff line as he headed towards where Glenn and Morales were piling the walkers, every inch of his body indicating that the matter was now closed for discussion.

And unfortunately for him, for the first time since the sheriff had arrived at the quarry, both Rick and Shane seemed to be in agreement because Rick didn't seem much more open to his stammering.

_Fuck. His. Life._

He was left alone after that, not really noticing that everyone was giving him a wide berth as his free hand clenched into a tight fist at his side. _He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't wanted it either. What if he fucked this up? What if-_

He gritted his teeth as his hand tightened around the barrel. The smell of stale sweat and partially coagulated blood had thickened the air around him. He sucked in a hurried breath, trying to control the sudden jolt to his heart rate as worst case scenarios and 'what ifs' rose up in his mind's eye. His vivid imagination only made a bad situation worse as the mutilated corpses of the kids, of Sophia and Carl, Rick, Dale, T-dog, Jacqui, Shane, Lori, Andrea and _Christ, _even _Carol _sprawled across the ground in front of him, their empty eyes seeming to stare right at him as he-

A slick of sweat rolled down the curve of his spine, chill and discomforting despite the dry, Georgian heat. The repetitive _swish-swish_-_thunk_ of an axe biting into the softness of flesh slowly brought him back to himself. Realizing for the first time that he was still standing there, behind the RV, his shoulders hunched, looking like a beaten old hound dog just waitin' for the next blow.

And as pathetic as he sounded, that expectation was not completely without good reason.

He was already getting flash backs to Prague and this whole situation was just fifty shades of not okay. He sighed, the weight of the weapon heavy and dull in his palm. Discomfort rose in the back of his throat, choking and cloyingly thick as he worried one of his hangnails bloody. One part of him was half convinced he just needed to buck the fuck up while the other was lamenting the fact that there was really nowhere convenient to have a good old fashioned mental breakdown these days.

He nearly jumped right out of his god damned skin when Carol came up beside him, hesitating for a smattering of beats before she put her hand on his shoulder. The action was as about as light as a single length of copper wire, gentle and passive in all the ways he figured a comforting touch _should _be.

He tried his best not to flinch.

And while it didn't work, at least she had the good grace to look apologetic about it. _He supposed it made sense in a terrible, depressing sort of way. After all, if there was anyone here that understood, it would be her._

He felt the change in the air when her hand finally left his skin, trying to tell himself that his breathing _wasn't _ragged, that it was just nerves, the aftereffects of adrenaline slowly leaving his system. He was a good liar, one of the best actually. It'd kinda come with the job description back when he'd been working for the fang. Heck, as a kid, he'd perfected the art of lying before he'd even mastered tying his own shoes, so, at the end of the day, he supposed that said something.

Too bad he wasn't good enough to fool _himself._

Ever since his run in with the vampires, he had this thing about touching. Honestly, about everything really. He had a healthy respect for the concept of the personal bubble, thank you very much. I guess you could say he had trust issues. And after all who could blame him? Knowing what he knew? After seeing what he'd seen, what he'd _done_?

"Are you alright?" the woman asked, sitting down beside him with an audible sniff, something that had nothing to do with dust or allergies, but rather the salt-tracks that had already dried across her cheeks, evidence of tears already shed. Shed for Amy, for Andrea, hell, for all he knew, maybe even for that dickhead she'd called her husband.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, taking her in from stem to stern as she looked off towards the horizon, at the dawn light streaking the sky in a haze of orange and pink, highlighting the distant skyscrapers as the sun started filtering through a band of heavy morning cloud.

Her hand lingered on her breast, skimming the edges of the gold cross that rested against the hollow of her throat, reflecting the odd ray of sunshine across her freckle-flecked skin as they slowly used up the silence.

"Super," he finally retorted, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he looked down at his lap. He felt her eyes on him as he tried and failed to come up with something smart to say, something distracting or self-deprecating. But honestly? He got nothin'. The gun was still heavy in his right palm as he leaned back against the side of the RV, suddenly feeling drained and uncertain as sweat started beading at his temples.

The sarcasm behind his reply was heady and rude, but funnily enough she didn't seem to mind. Instead, she rubbed her hands together, shooting him a sly, almost mirthful sort of look as she spoke.

"Me too."

He shot her a look, momentarily unsure of if he was being made fun of before she sent him a small, crooked little smile that assured him it was quite the opposite. He blinked as it set in. _She was trying to make him feel better. Out of all people, it was her trying to-_

He returned her smile after a long pause, but even then, it was barely there, more a reflection of her own than anything else. He was tired, tired of confrontation, tired of the fuckin' front he'd put up around him since day fuckin' one. _God, he was just tired._

His limbs felt heavy at his sides as he pressed one of the canteens against his forehead. But the relative chill only made the dissociation that much worse. _He felt like he was going to be sick. Like he was about to-_

"We could talk about it," she suggested, her words airy and light as she looked down at her hands, scrubbing at the occasional smattering of dirt or grime until her hands shone red - irritated at the abuse.

"Nothin' much to talk about," he grunted.

She shot him a look that was about fifty percent mothering and fifty percent 'please get your head out of your ass and stop sassing me before I put you in a time out'. It was intimidating enough that he figured it would make a lesser man quail.

_The woman had gumption, he'd give her that._

"I know enough to recognize when something is eating away at someone," she replied, unscrewing a thermos and pouring a cup of water before she offered it to him. His first sip was like mother's milk - cool, tart, and tangy in the way only fresh water, right from the stream can be.

Christ, she acted like it would be so easy. Easy to just spill his guts and not have to worry about the fall out. To worry not just what she'd think of him afterwards, but if she'd even believe him in the first place, respect him in the morning and all that.

He ran a hand through his hair, thumbing off his sweaty bandana and testing its give as he wrapped it around his fist again and again. It reminded him of one of those stress balls he'd tossed B one time after a raid gone wrong. Big Bad had squeezed it so hard it had actually _exploded_, spilling sand and bits of metal all over the floor as he'd high tailed it out of there, deciding to make a midnight sugar run before the man took out his righteous fury on _him _instead of another stress ball.

"You wouldn't believe me even if I tried," he said with a sigh, gaze narrowing as flashes of memories he'd rather forget lit up in the back of his mind like faulty firecrackers.

"You won't know until you try," she shot back, eyes watery but strong as somewhere in the background, Morales put a shovel through Ed's forehead. The sound was grating and harsh but she didn't flinch, she didn't even so much as look away. She only had eyes for him.

He swallowed hard, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he met her gaze from behind the fringe of his hair. Head pounding as a rush of words got tangled in their dash to the exit. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Try me," she repeated.

So he did.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete, thank you for all your lovely comments and interest, I am thrilled you enjoyed!


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